Trust is a Two Way Street, Part 1
by Arianna18
Summary: This sequel to A Man I Can Trust picks up exactly where the other story left off. Mark's road to recovery is long and hard ... and Milt is very worried about him.


_Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and the story is offered for fun, not profit._

**TRUST IS A TWO-WAY STREET**

_by Arianna_

_Sequel to: A Man I Can Trust_

_With thanks to LMLewis, who allowed me to reference Sarah's 'backstory',_

_first described in her story, Retaliation; _

_and for her very helpful beta support._

_Anyone wishing to see the version that includes Suzanne's_

_beautiful manips, please write me directly for a copy._

Embers of burning pain flared into searing agony with every breath he took, inescapable and unbearable fire that dragged him from the respite of sleep back toward restless wakefulness. Not yet quite conscious, he moaned in futile resistance, craving the darkness that was fast receding, drifting away out of his grasp with the inexorable indifference of the tide abandoning the beach.

"Easy, kid, easy."

Hardcastle's voice jerked him all the way to consciousness. "Wha …?" Mark muttered, blinking in confusion as he stared at the Judge, who was leaning over him, concern etched on his face. He was hot, so hot, and yet pitiless shivers wracked his body, adding to his misery. "Hurts," he grated with raw honesty through clenched jaws, despising his weakness but helpless to hold it all inside. "B-bad."

"I know, kid," Milt soothed as he awkwardly stroked Mark's fevered brow. "The nurse'll be here soon with something to ease the pain." Shifting, Hardcastle lifted Mark's head just a little, while he held a cup to Mark's lips. "Try to drink," he urged.

Mark's stomach rebelled, but he sipped as bid, and nearly wept at the relief the cool water brought to his throat. Though he would have gulped more, Hardcase kept the flow of the elixir maddeningly slow. But, at least, that made it last. By the time the cup was empty, he was exhausted by the effort and sagged heavily against the bed. Very gently, Milt eased his head back onto the pillow. Sucking in shallow puffs of air, afraid to breathe deeply and stir the embers inside into a conflagration, Mark's gaze drifted blearily around the room as he tried to remember where he was and why.

Hospital. Right. Shot. His hand fumbled over the dressing that covered his chest before Hardcase caught his questing fingers and held them still. Too weak to resist, Mark tried to focus on him but, God, the pain and the hellacious heat were distracting. He'd been better, hadn't he? Better than this?

"Fever started last night," Hardcastle told him, the words coming low and slow, and he could see the Judge wasn't sure if he understood or not.

"F-fever?" he rasped.

"Yeah," Milt gusted. "Infection in your chest. They've got you on heavy-duty antibiotics. You should feel better soon. Day or two."

"Day or …" Mark whispered in abject despair, not knowing if he could endure such raging agony for so long. Afraid the tears that blurred and burned in his eyes might fall, he closed his eyes to hold them inside. Dying couldn't be worse than this. Or, maybe, he was dying, and this is what it felt like.

"Where the hell is that nurse?" Hardcase growled.

Mark felt the absence of the Judge's hands, and had to clench his jaw to keep from crying out the desolate wail in his mind. _Don't leave me! Don't wanna die alone…._

If he'd had the strength, he would have laughed with the bitter knowledge that alone was as it should be. Alone was what he was. What he'd been for most of his life. But lacking the strength, he could only whimper nearly soundlessly and, even then, humiliation forced the sound to strangle in his throat. He heard the bustle of sounds, cloth swishing, footsteps … felt cool fingers on his wrist and a thermometer was slipped into his mouth. He tried to open his eyes but was too weak and tired, so he contented himself with an inarticulate mumble around the hard, glass stick. Hardcastle's palm covered his brow, solid, reassuring, and he felt pathetically grateful for the touch. An ache, deep inside, below the fiery torment, eased.

Gradually, he felt the pain in his chest recede into a low burn, and he could breathe again without feeling as if his lungs were ripping apart. Chilled, he shivered uncontrollably, and felt a blanket layered over him, bringing comfort and warmth. Not quite conscious, too uncomfortable to sleep, he drifted aimlessly in the vague world between, hearing voices in the distance and feeling the touch that told him Hardcase was nearby, anchoring him, holding onto him to make sure he didn't drift so far he'd never find his way back. Funny to feel someone there, with him. Different.

Nice.

"How's our boy doing?" Charlie asked as he came into the room, his expression somber as he studied McCormick.

"Aren't you supposed to be telling me that?" Milt groused with worried irritability. "So far as I can see, he's gettin' worse not better."

Charlie nodded as he moved further into the small, glass-walled cubicle, to stand on the far side of the bed. Thin, elegant fingers pressed against the pulse point in Mark's wrist, and then Charlie settled the ear-pieces of his stethoscope, and leaned forward to listen to Mark's chest. After shifting the metal disk to one spot after another, he straightened and reached out to feel his patient's neck, under his jaw. Cocking his head, he chewed his lip as he appeared to listen to Mark's labored breathing.

Milt watched his old friend's face, scarcely daring to breathe. He didn't much like the preoccupied, distant expression, and the frown that grew on Charlie's brow thrilled him even less. "He's not doing too good, is he?"

"No, no, he's not," Charlie agreed, though his tone was mild and thoughtful. He grimaced and sighed. "I'm going to have him placed back on life support."

Milt felt the wash of cold shock as he gaped at the doctor. "You don't mean … he's not…."

"Mark's very sick, Milt," Charlie murmured, his gaze narrowing as he continued to study Mark and listen to his labored respirations. "The pain is such that he's breathing too shallowly, not filling his lungs – and that's not good. Will only worsen the pneumonia." Glancing at Hardcastle, he straightened and compassion flooded his face as he hastily reassured, "Relax, Milt. I'm not saying that we're losing him here. Just that we need to take steps to ensure we don't."

Not entirely sure how much relief he could wring from such guarded reassurance, Milt swallowed hard and nodded. "But you think he'll be okay, right? Just a matter of time?" he asked, too weary and scared to worry about how forlorn and frightened he sounded.

Charlie's hesitation didn't do much to ease the tight band of fear around his chest. "We're doing all we can," he finally replied. "And Mark's strong. Despite the severity of his wounds, he was doing well until this hit him. Let's give it another day or two, give the antibiotics time to work – and let his system rest a bit by not having to fight the pain to breathe on his own."

With no other choice, his lips pressed tight against useless protests that this shouldn't have happened, that it wasn't fair, Hardcastle could only grudgingly nod.

"You need to go home and get some rest," Charlie went on, his tone gently chiding. "You're beginning to look almost as bad as he does."

Scowling heavily, Milt rubbed his stubbled chin. Flicking a look up at Charlie, not really hoping the physician would understand what he didn't fully understand himself, he shook his head. "I think I need to stay here," he rumbled. "Can't explain it but … I think the kid knows I'm here. I think he needs to know someone cares about him right now."

"You think you're somehow holding him here," Charlie murmured, his gaze once again assessing Mark.

Feeling like a fool, Milt nonetheless admitted softly, "Yeah. I guess I do. He, uh, he seems less agitated when I touch him or talk to him. Like he knows I'm keepin' watch an' he can relax and rest."

"Given that he's probably not used to feeling safe or sheltered, you could well be right," Charlie allowed. "And given how much he needs to rest to heal, I'm not about to argue against whatever might help." But his tone grew sharp with firmness as he directed, "But you make damned sure to eat, and to get some rest, whether in that chair, or preferably stretched out on the couch in the lounge. I don't have time to worry about you collapsing, too."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll behave," Hardcastle growled, but a smile of weary gratitude twitched on his mouth. Jerking his head toward the door, he went on, "You'll get Nurse Ratchet off my back? Tell her I can be in here as much an' as long as I want? She's been threatening to have Security toss me out on my keister."

Charlie snorted as he moved around the end of the bed, and patted Milt on the shoulder. "I'll call her off," he promised. "She's just doing her job but … I'm prepared to accept you're doing Mark as much good as all our fancy medicines and machines. From what you've shared with me about him, I agree that it's important that he not feel like he's fighting this battle all on his own."

"Thanks, Charlie," Milt mumbled, his friend's words easing his discomfort that he was maybe being a bit too superstitious, and giving too much weight to an instinctive certainty he couldn't quite put into words.

After Charlie had gone, he leaned forward to again cover Mark's hand with his own. "I'm here, kiddo. And I'm not going anywhere. You can make book on that."

Whether Mark understood him or not, he couldn't be sure. But Milt felt a slight twitch in the hand under his, and it was enough to let him believe that Mark knew he was there.

Mark passionately hated the perpetual gagging sensation of the tube that snaked down his throat. But that was nothing compared to the relentless, excruciating agony of the air being rhythmically forced deep into his lungs and sucked back out again without his volition. He would have ripped the damned thing out if he could have lifted his arms. Would have screamed in rage and hurt, if he'd had the energy. But he felt trapped in some kind of hell, where he could only endure, not understanding, wishing it would all end, praying with inarticulate desperation for relief. Tears leaked from his eyes and, sometimes, he heard a distant mewling, like a dog caught in a trap, too hurt and weak to howl. He was afraid the sound was coming from him. Every time he heard it, someone came in to fiddle with the tube in his mouth, and it thickened in his throat in a way that terrified him. Though he vaguely knew in his rational moments that the machine was ensuring he got oxygen, not being able to draw in air on his own or make any sound of distress left him desperately afraid of suffocating to death.

And he was still so hot, like he was staked out somewhere in the Mojave under the cruel sun, and yet, maybe at night when the sun had set, he was wracked by violent shivers that only made all the rest of the agony worse. He couldn't escape. There was no comfort, no refuge. It just went on and on and on, until he thought he might lose his mind and slip away into eternal madness.

All that kept him sane, all that sometimes seemed to make some sense, was the reassuring strength of the hand he felt holding his, or occasionally stroking his brow, that let him know he wasn't lost and abandoned; that as bad as it was, someone was there, with him, enduring the torment by his side. And … and the rumble of the voice, words that flowed together most of the time so that he couldn't quite make them out. The sound of that voice was reassuring, encouraging, holding some kind of promise he didn't understand but that he clung to, desperate to believe that this hellish existence would not be interminable. There were times when the pain dimmed enough that he could recognize the tones, make out the reassurances. In those ebbing moments, he vaguely understood that Hardcastle was watching over him, assuring him this torment would end, if only he'd hold on a little longer, fight a little harder.

Those moments, and the strong grip that held him like a lifeline, were all that kept him from drifting into the beckoning light that seemed to grow brighter and then wane, even as the pain and the words surged around and within him and receded for a bit, allowing him to sink into the dark arms of tenuous and all-too-brief interludes of sleep.

_Hold on a little longer,_ he urged himself, with little more than pigheaded stubbornness, when the light grew so bright it was blinding, so close he could almost touch it. _Fight a little harder,_ he told himself, though he didn't truly think he had anything left to fight with, and it was hard, so hard, to even try. But deep within the core of him there was a spark of anger that fueled his flagging determination to not simply give up. He wasn't done with life yet; wasn't ready to call the curtain down, however pathetic the show had been so far. He wanted … more. Wanted a chance. Just a chance. If he'd been alone, known he had to do it all himself, he might have lost hope, given up, let go the anger and the aching sorrow, and let slip his stubborn but ever-weakening grip on life.

But in the hardest moments, when he was sure he didn't have anything more to give and wasn't sure he even wanted to try any more, when it was just too damned hard to endure, he felt someone holding on, someone who cared enough not to let go, someone's voice calling to him … and … and it was enough, enough to try. Enough to hope that maybe, just maybe, if he got through this nameless hell, there was someone out there beyond the borders of heat and pain, who thought he mattered, who cared a damn about him … someone … someone he didn't want to let down.

_He could endure a little longer … hold on just a little harder … for a while, just a little while more…._

Despite eyes scratchy with the need for sleep and muscles and bones aching with weariness, Milt stubbornly remained by McCormick's side. The few times he'd nearly drifted off, his grip loosening on the kid's hand, the machines had gone nuts, sending out warning whistles and beeps, and jerking him back into dazed awareness. His grip tightening, he'd call urgently to Mark to not quit on him, to not give up, not after making it so damned far … and the machines would settle down, and his own heart would start beating again.

Two days and nights had passed since they'd again intubated the kid, and now another dawn was lightening the eastern sky, just visible from the window by the bed, sending pale streaks of light to wash McCormick's haggard visage. His stubbled, hollowed cheeks were unnaturally splotched with fever, the unhealthy ruddiness making the bluish-gray pallor underneath even more pronounced. The fever had burned the flesh from his body, leaving the kid looking wasted, bones sharp under his hot, dry skin. Tears leaked intermittently from Mark's eyes, sliding down into his hair, until Milt wiped them away.

From time to time, when the pain medication was wearing thin, there was a raw, guttural keening low in his throat that lifted the hairs on the back of Hardcastle's neck. Each time the nurse hurried in to do something to fix the tube and stop that piteous sound, the Judge winced and wondered if there was something wrong with the damned equipment. When whatever was wrong was fixed, he couldn't decide if the abrupt and unnatural silence that followed was better or worse than the piteous sounds of suffering.

Nor could Milt take comfort in believing the kid was unconscious and blessedly unaware. A good part of the time, Mark was awake, or what passed for being awake, his eyes open but so shadowed with misery and relentless agony that he was lost, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. He twitched weakly, his whole body so tight he trembled with his inability to escape the pain or find any comfort, except when the medication was first pumped into his intravenous line. Then, his eyes would glaze and close as he drifted into a death-like slumber that was … terrifying, because Milt was never sure he'd wake again.

The Judge had never seen a man suffer more than this, not even during the war. His helplessness to do anything about it gnawed at him, and wore him down, too. The fact that the kid was suffering so terribly for having shielded him left Milt feeling utterly sick.

He wasn't sure how much more McCormick could take. Hell, he wasn't sure how much more _he_ could take. But there was no way he was going to quit. Mark was in that bed, suffering God knew how much, because he'd had the guts to stand as a shield for Milt; had been ready to sacrifice his life to save Hardcastle's, and that demanded loyalty … and this vigil, however long it might last.

One way or another, Milt didn't think it could go on much longer.

"No change, huh?" Frank asked quietly from the doorway.

"Huh? No, not so's you'd notice," Hardcastle agreed wearily. "Kid's a fighter, though. He's not quitting. Not yet, anyway."

Frank nodded slowly as he came into the room, hands stuffed into his pockets, his expression carefully guarded and his gaze averted.

"You look like you got bad news you wish you didn't have to spill," Milt observed, his chin lifting to take whatever blow might be coming.

"Mickey Di Angelo made bail a couple hours ago," Frank told him morosely. "No priors. No reason to hold onto him, not without Mark's statement, anyway."

Milt felt his expression harden with futile anger. The law was the law, whether the charged was as innocent as a week-old lamb, or as rotten as year-old garbage. Turning away to hide the resentment he felt, that that animal was strutting around free while McCormick was still fighting for his life, he grunted in acknowledgement, and let it go at that.

"I've ordered protection," Harper went on as he gazed at Mark. "Nobody gets into this room from now on without the proper ID."

"Good," Hardcastle approved with blunt appreciation.

"You think he's gonna make it?" Frank asked guardedly.

"Of course he's gonna make it, dammit! This kid doesn't give up, y'hear?" Hardcastle shouted, giving vent to emotions he'd kept bottled up too long, and unable to countenance any other outcome.

"Yeah," Harper replied with a small smile, his tone wry. "I hear you. I bet the guys on the next block heard you, too. Take it easy, Milt, before you blow a gasket."

Chagrined, Milt rolled his eyes and grimaced. "I know he's in bad shape, Frank," he allowed. "I'm not blind, y'know, an' I've been here watchin' him for more'n two days now. It's been close a coupl'a times, but he'd hangin' in. He's hangin' in."

His smile widening to a grin, Frank teased, "He probably doesn't dare give up, what with you breathin' down his neck like that. Probably figures you'd chase him all the way to hell, just to drag him back an' give 'im a piece of your mind. Easier to just stay."

"Yeah," Milt agreed, a ghost of a smile playing over his lips, grateful for the teasing, the easing of the mood. "Yeah."

Frank hesitated, and then offered, "You want to take a break? Get some food? Maybe take a shower? I'll stay with him. Even hold his hand, so he won't know you're gone."

Hardcastle scowled at him and searched for any sign of mockery in Frank's face or eyes over the hand-holding but, when he only saw sincerity, he relaxed … and felt every ache of exhaustion. "Okay," he agreed. "Might be a good idea. Might wake me up a bit." Standing, he stretched and ceded his place by the bed to Harper. "I'm gettin' a little too old for this kind of thing."

"Not sure it'd be any easier if you were any younger," Frank observed dryly. "Not easy to be on tenterhooks this long."

Milt let his expression say what he'd never have the words to express as he turned to walk slowly and stiffly out to the hall. "Be back in half an hour or so," he called.

"Take your time," Frank told him, as he reached out to clasp Mark's hand. When he was sure the Judge was out of earshot, he leaned in close. "You don't know me from Adam," he murmured, low and steady. "But I gotta say, I'm some impressed with you. Not sure how you did it but … that man's alive again. Cares more'n just about what's legal, and gettin' the bad asses behind bars. It's been a while since I've seen him give much of a damn about anything or anyone else. You've … you've gotten to him, McCormick. You've hit him where he lives. So, I gotta ask ya to hang in for the long haul. I know … I know. He's not the easiest man to be around. Downright obstinate, and he's got a mean mouth, when he wants to use it that way. But … he's a good man. And I think he needs you, kid – I get the feelin' that you're more'n stubborn enough to be his match. An' something tells me that maybe you need him, too, ya know? Worth givin' it a shot, huh? Worth stickin' around to see how things work out?"

Frank studied the unresponsive man, compassion shadowing his eyes. "I hope you start gettin' better soon, Mark. For your own sake as much as for his. I hate to say it, kid, but you look like shit."

"Judge! Hey, Judge Hardcastle! You in there? Would you tell this officer that I'm allowed to visit, huh? Judge?"

Milt turned and nodded consent to the cop on the door to let Teddy pass. He had to hand it to the kid – he might be a space cadet, but he was loyal. Came by to check on Mark just like clockwork, every three days, rain or shine. "Teddy," he grunted with a nod. "How're ya doin'?"

"Me? Oh, hey, you know, I'm doin' great. I think I maybe got somebody interested in my icy coffee idea," Teddy Hollins told him with a wide, eager smile. But the cheerful bright expression faded into abject sorrow when Teddy looked at his friend and former cellmate. "Skid's still not doin' too good, huh?" he observed, sounding like he might cry.

_Kid sure wears his heart on his sleeve,_ Milt thought. _Wonder how he ever survived in prison? Was probably everybody's mascot, or some damned thing. Be like kickin' a pup to pick on him._ Aloud, he replied, "McCormick's doin' okay. He's holdin' his own, and that's somethin'."

"Yeah, yeah, you're right," Teddy agreed, rallying, ready to grab any bone that would allow him to believe that fairytales might still come true. Without any sign of being intimidated by the former jurist, Teddy laid a hand on Milt's shoulder. "You're looking pretty done in, Judge. Anything I can do for you? Maybe go get you a cup of coffee or something?"

"I'd appreciate that, Teddy, if you wouldn't mind," Hardcastle agreed, reaching into his pocket for the change, but Hollins waved him off. Milt felt guilty at the relief he felt when Teddy bounced out of the room, but he just didn't have the energy left to cope with that much enthusiasm.

Edgy with exhaustion, twitchy, needing to lie down on his own bed so bad he ached, Hardcastle stared at McCormick's face with grim determination, refusing to quit … but afraid he was going to have to. There was no way he was going to last another night in that chair. He was so fixated on not giving up, on riding it out that he didn't at first register the beads of sweat that formed on Mark's brow … and then his jaw dropped and his breath caught in hope.

Rising, he cupped Mark's cheek and leaned closer, squinting to be sure he wasn't seeing things. But the beads were proliferating, and Mark's still too-warm skin soon grew slick under Milt's hand. The antibiotics were finally working. Tears glazed Hardcastle's eyes and, for a moment, he couldn't move, couldn't speak, for the relief that surged through him, filling his chest and clogging his throat.

"That's it, kid," he rasped, his voice hoarse with emotion, as he squeezed Mark's shoulder. "You're gonna be okay now, aren't ya? You made it through the valley."

He punched the call button pinned to the pillow. By the time a nurse responded, the sweat was pouring from Mark's body, drenching the sheets and his bandages. The dangerous fever had broken.

Milt stayed long enough to see that they cleaned Mark up, and put fresh, dry sheets on his bed. Long enough to be sure the kid was really sleeping, and not just lost in a fretful nightmare. He patted Mark's shoulder approvingly. "I'll see ya in the mornin', McCormick," he murmured. "An' we'll see about maybe gettin' that infernal tube outta your throat. Bet that'd make you more comfortable, huh? Anyway, kiddo, you sleep good tonight, y'hear? God knows, I expect I will." Yawning, he added, "I think I could sleep through the Second Coming, or at least an earthquake."

And then, tired but feeling pretty good, a half-smile on his lips and whistling under his breath, he headed out into the hall, intent upon getting home to his own bed. The kid was a long, long way from being well, but he was a hell of a lot better than he'd been. And, for now, that was enough. But the young patrol officer standing sentry duty lightly caught his arm.

"Excuse me, Judge, but it looked like something was going on in there. How's Mr. McCormick?"

"Better, son," Milt replied. He rolled his shoulders to loosen them. "I'm going home for a few hours. Be back in the morning."

"Fine, sir. I'll have a patrol car pick you up at the main entrance. They'll maintain surveillance while you're at home, and bring you back here when you're ready."

Hardcastle was a little surprised, but then realized that he shouldn't be. He was a witness, too, and Frank wouldn't be taking any chances with either of them. Too tired to be responsible for his own security, he was grateful.

"Good, I'll meet them downstairs," he agreed. Tipping the officer a salute, he continued on his way to the elevator. He hadn't spared much thought to Mickey D in the last few days but now, as the elevator carried him downstairs, his brow creased in a frown as he recalled the hood's threat to kill McCormick himself. Words spoken in the heat of anger were often reconsidered in the cool light of the day. But the Judge was pretty convinced that the young hoodlum had stayed out of jail in the past by ensuring he either terrorized possible witnesses – or simply killed them – to ensure their silence. And, as many as the gang members as had been rounded up the night of the bust, there were that many again still roaming around; and who knew how many of those arrested had made bail?

Yawning as he ambled to the entrance to wait for his ride, Hardcastle shrugged; looked like they might not be out of the woods on this one, not yet, anyway. He pulled on his ear as he thought about McCormick. The kid was safe, for now. Nobody would get to him up in that locked ward. Deciding there was nothing to worry about that night, the Judge dozed in the patrol car and, when he got home, he climbed straight upstairs to his bed. When he crawled in under the sheets, he stretched out, savoring the feel of being horizontal, and was asleep in seconds.

Hardcastle grimaced when he heard some poor bastard gagging and choking as he ambled down the corridor the next morning, but he didn't twig to where the sounds were coming from until he noticed the cop standing watch was looking both tense and queasy. Breaking into a jog, he slammed into the tiny room, and was appalled to see McCormick thrashing and heaving, grunting and choking in desperate panic, while two orderlies held him down and a nurse was doing something around his head.

"What the hell is going on in here?" he demanded.

"You shouldn't be in here," the nurse countered sharply, but her attention was on holding Mark's jerking head steady while she fiddled with the tube that disappeared into Mark's mouth and filled his throat. Milt could hear a rasping suction sound, like at the dentist's office, but didn't understand what was going on. "Wait outside."

"McCORMICK! SETTLE DOWN!" he bellowed, ignoring her curt instruction that he leave. "Let them help you!"

Immediately, Mark stopped fighting, but his gagging, grunting distress didn't lessen, and his whole body was tight with panic.

"What's wrong?" Milt demanded again, his tone a low roar. "Why's he sound like he's choking to death?"

"Because he is," the nurse retorted. "The endotrachial tube is blocked, and he can't get any air. I'm trying to suction it clear."

"For God's sake," Hardcase growled, his gut clenching in fear. "How long's he been like this?"

"Not long."

But Milt could see Mark's lips were blue and his face was fast turning the same color. Wild fear shone from the kid's eyes, and his fists clenched as he fought to hold himself still.

"Why's he fighting you?"

"He was trying to pull out the tube," she explained, doing her best to remain calm but her tone was brittle.

"Dammit, that sounds like the most sensible thing to do," Milt observed, scowling ferociously. "He's turning BLUE!"

Mark suddenly sagged, scaring the hell out of him. "That's it. That's it! He's losing consciousness!" Milt yelled. "Get that damned tube out of him – NOW!"

Evidently agreeing, the nurse gave up the futile attempt to suction the obstruction out of the way and, in a heartbeat, was smoothly pulling the gunk-covered tube out. Nauseated, Milt glanced away, but moved closer, wanting to help but not sure what to do. As soon as the tube was clear of his throat, Mark began choking and heaving, gasping for air. His whole body spasmed as deep, tearing coughs wracked him. The nurse suctioned his mouth, and then slapped an oxygen mask on his face, while the orderlies braced his body, giving what support they could to his injured chest.

Finally, the terrible coughing subsided, and Mark sagged bonelessly on the bed, shallowly panting for air. "God," he rasped, his voice low and guttural with agony.

The nurse waved the orderlies back as she checked his pulse and blood pressure. "I'll get you something for the pain," she told him. "And I'll call your doctor; see if we can leave that tube out. You seem to be breathing alright without it." Staring at the ceiling, still evidently concentrating only on breathing, Mark gave her an infinitesimal nod of agreement. "We'll leave that oxygen mask on you for now," she told him. "Hang on. I'll be back in a few minutes." All he did was blink and then, tears leaking down the sides of his face, closed his eyes, as if any kind of answer was beyond him.

When she bustled out, waving the orderlies out ahead of her, Hardcastle approached the bed and gripped Mark's wrist. "Hell of thing," he muttered, as he studied Mark's wan visage. "You scared the hell out of me."

Mark puffed a weak laugh but, stiffening defensively, jerked his arm away to hug his chest when another coughing jag threatened.

"Easy, kid," Milt soothed, laying a palm on his damp brow. "You got the right idea. You just breathe, and let me an' everyone else take care of the rest."

Silence fell as Hardcastle kept anxious watch. Mark's breathing gradually slowed, but it sounded funny to Milt's ears – sodden and labored. His gaze narrowing in thought, Milt figured that the antibiotics had done more than break the fever; the infection was loosening its grip, too, but McCormick now sounded like he had the world's worst chest cold. _Pneumonia,_ Milt thought. _That's what it's called. Pneumonia._

The nurse finally returned with an injection of pain medication. "Dr. Friedman will be in to see you soon. In the meantime, he said we could just continue with the oxygen."

Mark didn't respond but the strain showing on his face seemed to ease marginally. A few minutes later, he appeared to have fallen asleep.

Hardcastle heaved a deep sigh and slumped onto the chair beside the bed. Leaning over, he scrubbed his face with his hands, and then shook his head. Here, he'd thought last night the kid would be just fine now. Sure, he had to heal but he'd thought the worst was over. He hadn't thought about the congestion in Mark's chest and the danger that could pose. Walking in to find him like that, fighting to breathe, nearly passing out from lack of oxygen, had shaken Milt badly and he was still trembling.

Straightening, he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. They still had a hard battle ahead of them, but they were going to make it.

_They?_

He frowned as he wondered when it had become 'they', but it didn't matter. Whether it was the moment he'd turned back and had seen Mark standing between him and death, being gunned down to save his life, or sometime in the hours and days since, sitting here, holding onto the kid, willing him to stay alive, in Milt's head they'd become a 'they'. In it together. More than the separate individuals they'd been.

Biting his lip, he studied Mark's face, the sickly pallor, the wasted appearance, listened to his strained breathing, and wondered if the kid felt anything like the same thing. Regret clouded Milt's eyes; sorrow for the kid's suffering. McCormick was sure paying a hell of a price for the partnership they were still hammering out between them. It seemed almost obscene to see the weakened, utterly vulnerable wreck he was now, compared to the vitally alive, strong and energetic, smart-assed man he'd been just over a week ago. But they were gonna get past this. Mark was going to get strong again, and be as cantankerous, independent, and brimming with mischievousness as he'd ever been, laughing, teasing, whining and bitching.

And … being there. Being whole.

Sitting back, Milt began to think about what would be needed to get McCormick strong and healthy again. For one thing, he wouldn't be able to manage in the gatehouse on his own, not for a while. Glancing at Mark's injured leg, Hardcastle pursed his lips. Might not even be able to manage stairs for a bit. Sniffing, he rubbed his nose with his thumb and, mentally, began to rearrange the geography of the house.

When Charlie showed up about an hour later, Hardcastle was ready with a list of questions about the treatment Mark would be getting for his current pneumonia, and about what would be needed during his convalescence.

"It'll be a while yet before he's ready to go home," Charlie observed dryly.

"I know that," Hardcastle retorted impatiently. "I just want to get everything ready. He's gonna need physiotherapy, right? For his leg? And we're gonna have to get some meat back on those bones, so I need to know what to feed him. I'm just sayin' –"

"I think I know what you're saying," Charlie intervened with a thin smile. Crossing his arms, he gave Milt a pointed look of scrutiny. "Scared you this morning, didn't it – when you walked in here and thought he was choking to death? Deep down, you're thinking you can take better care of him at home than we're doing here."

Hardcastle flushed and his gaze dipped. He rubbed his mouth, and then pinned Charlie with a hard glare. "He _was _choking, and fighting to try to help himself," he snapped, coming to his feet to pace in agitation. "_An' they were holding him down_. He was _terrified_, Charlie, an' he had good reason. He damned near _passed out_ before that fool of a nurse pulled that blocked tube outta him so he could breathe. You're damned right I was scared. And, yeah, maybe I do think I could take better care of him at home. Maybe get private nurses, 'round the clock care – whatever he needs."

"Calm down, Milt, before you have a stroke," his physician soothed. "However it looked this morning, Mark is getting the best care possible right here – the care he needs. We have to get this pneumonia cleared up before I'll even consider releasing him. After that, I've been considering referring him to a rehabilitation center for a few weeks, so that he can work on getting his damaged leg muscle going again, and get his strength back."

"No."

"Milt, it's a lot of work caring for an invalid," Charlie coaxed. "It'll be some time before Mark has his full strength and mobility back."

"I said 'no', and I meant, 'no'," Hardcastle growled. "When he's ready to leave the hospital, he's coming home. That's it; that's all. I'm not shuffling him off to some rehab place, no disrespect to them. But he'd only be one patient there, right? I can make sure he gets individual care." Looking around the cell-like room, the glass wall, the lack of privacy, he shook his head. "This man has spent 'way too much time in institutions already. He needs to be _home_. He'll get better faster _at home_."

Charlie sighed. "All right," he agreed. "I hear what you're saying, and don't entirely disagree. But, Milt, it's ultimately up to Mark. Once he's stronger and it's time to discuss next steps, we can give him the choice. He's only been with you, what? At most, a couple of months? That might not make the place feel like 'home' to him."

Hardcastle reared back at the thought, and turned to look at McCormick. Would the kid consider Gulls' Way home? Frowning, he thought the question might more properly be whether Mark would rather be confined in another impersonal institution, surrounded by people in uniform, constrained to eat whatever they deigned to feed him, locked into a schedule that someone else dictated? "Nah," Milt murmured with bittersweet certainty. "No, no, he'll want to come home. Whether he feels like that's what Gulls' Way is, or not, it's better than the alternative." He paused and then added somberly, "Besides, it'll also be safer for him out on the estate. The gang that put him in here is gunning for him. You know that. Be easier for the cops to protect him if he's out there."

Floating on the edge of sleep, feeling dazed, afraid to attempt much more than to just keep breathing shallowly and evenly to stave off another fit of pain-filled coughing, and lacking the motivation to even open his eyes, Mark was nevertheless awake and listening to the discussion going on over his head. The medication he'd been given some time before had taken the edge off the burning pain deep in his chest, allowing him to relax and rest, and he thought he might have dropped off to sleep for a little while. But the pain wasn't that muted and, coupled with his terror at being unable to breathe that morning, he hadn't relaxed enough to remain asleep for long.

God, those had been some of the worst moments in his life. When Hardcastle had bellowed at him, he'd frozen in reflex more than anything else, but it had been so damned hard not to fight when he still couldn't breathe. All that had kept him still was his hope that he had an advocate on his side, someone who was paying attention and making sure the nurse did something – _anything_ – to help him. Afterward, in a vague way, he'd known Hardcase was still there with him; he'd heard low, muttered phrases as Hardcastle carried on some conversation with himself, and had been content to leave the Judge to it.

Playing possum gave him a chance to think, to try to figure out what was going on. He needed the subterfuge, the … privacy. Especially when his mind tended to drift and he knew he wasn't firing on all cylinders. God, he felt like shit, and in no condition to have any kind of meaningful conversation.

Before his doctor had come in, he'd been puzzling over why Hardcase was there. Why he always seemed to be there. Mark knew he'd been out of it for a while, too sick to respond to much of anything, but every time he'd awakened for about as much as he could remember since he'd gotten shot, Hardcastle had been right there, beside him, as often as not holding onto his hand or wrist, or cupping his brow. Touching him. Anchoring him. When things had been pretty bad – hell, _really_ bad – he'd been pitifully glad to have someone there, someone who seemed to be determined to hold onto him, to not let him float away. But the experience of not being alone and completely on his own to fight his personal battles was unusual and downright strange enough to be arresting. He appreciated it, sure. But he didn't understand it. Couldn't figure out why Hardcase was always there. Why he seemed to care.

Bits and pieces of the time before he'd gotten so sick began to surface as he pondered the mystery. While it would be nice to think that maybe Hardcase just liked him enough to want to be sure he was okay, Mark was pretty sure that wasn't the case. As he remembered listening to the Judge telling him what had gone down the night he'd gotten shot – he still couldn't remember those moments – he told himself it was just some kind of mixed up sense of guilt and responsibility that tethered Hardcastle to his side. And that left him feeling kinda sad, because he didn't want the old donkey to … to get all bent out of shape because of guilt. And the man sure in hell wasn't responsible for the decisions Mark made, or the actions he took. For the Judge to act like he was responsible, was … well, emasculating. Mark was no child, and he sure in hell didn't need anyone to take care of him or, worse, take responsibility for him, as if he was incompetent or some damned thing. Being in Hardcase's judicial stay didn't make him any less of a man.

Feeling surly and out of sorts, he'd just decided that, when he was up to it, whenever the hell that would be, he and Hardcase were going to have to have a serious talk, when he heard Dr. Freedman come in. Expecting the doctor to want to know how alert and responsive he was, he was just gathering his energy for the awesome task of opening his eyes and maybe even talking a little, when Hardcastle began peppering Charlie with all sorts of questions. Startled, but agreeable to the distraction, Mark had settled back to simply listen, and see what information he could gather about his condition and how soon he might expect to feel better than … well, like death warmed over. Sure a lot easier to let Hardcase interrogate the doctor than to try to ask of all those questions himself, let alone find the energy to even think them up.

_Pneumonia, huh?_ _Just what I needed on top of a gunshot wound to the chest_, he thought morosely. He wasn't surprised to hear Charlie say it would be a while before he'd be well enough to go home, though the thought discouraged him more than a little. Hospitals were okay; the staff was great. But he was so tired of being … helpless. Tired of being as good as locked up again, even if it was for his own good.

But when Hardcase began talking about taking him home, and 'round the clock care, he was astonished. _What the hell would make the Judge want to take all that on?_ As he listened, he was … touched, deeply, to hear Hardcastle going on with such ire about how scared he'd been that morning. God, it really did sound like he cared, at least a little, and it was … well, nice, to have someone in his corner, fighting like that for him. Weird, maybe, that it was the guy who had sent him up who was doing it, but still. Nice. And he was surprised to catch something like understanding in Hardcase's words, as if the Judge somehow understood that being home was infinitely better than being in some institution, however fine it was. Mark hadn't expected that degree of empathy. Hell, he hadn't expected _any_ empathy, not from Hardcase.

Home? Was Gulls' Way home? No, no it wasn't. He didn't have a place that was 'home'. But the estate was a refuge, of sorts. The clean air from the sea, the wide open reaches without walls hemming him in, the lushness of the place, the privacy of the gatehouse … yeah, it was all good. Better than a rehab center. He was feeling a surge of gratitude to the Judge for understanding that and being willing to give him that, when he caught the remarks about the gang. What? They were gunning for him? Oh, well, now wasn't that just terrific news.

And, with a sinking feeling, Mark figured that explained everything. It wasn't understanding or empathy, or even misplaced guilt or an inappropriate sense of responsibility that had Hardcase so solicitous, so … present. Nah. He should have known better, dammit. Really didn't have anything to do with him at all, did it? Was just the old donkey making damned sure the _witness_ he needed didn't croak or get himself killed; that was all. Wouldn't want the bad guys to get away with it, now would we? And, yeah, it sure made a pile of sense to make things easier for the cops on protection detail, by keeping him secure behind the electrified walls of the estate and not in some open, easily accessible bed in a public rehab center. No wonder Hardcase seemed so damned concerned for his welfare. It wasn't personal at all, just … just necessity and … and convenience.

Mark was surprised at how bitter that realization made him feel.

Bitter and … diminished. Like he wasn't a person, just a thing.

Swallowing the resentment and the hurt, he told himself to stopped being such a damned fool. What else would it have been, huh? Wasn't like he was anyone the Judge would actually care about. Wasn't like the Judge had used 'home' in the sense of it being Mark's home.

Like he'd just finished telling himself, he didn't have a home.

Sometimes, he wondered if he ever would.

Deciding he'd heard more than enough, he let the voices drift away until they were just a distant droning and he let himself slip into the respite of sleep.

When Dr. Friedman woke him to test his lucidity and to get him to take deep breaths – which immediately triggered an exhausting and excruciatingly painful bout of coughing – he did his best to respond with something approximately courtesy.

He couldn't bring himself to look at Hardcastle.

As soon as the doctor was finished with him, he closed his eyes again and pretended to sleep … and wished Hardcase would stop hovering, and just go home. Apparently, there was a cop on the door, standing guard. The Judge didn't have to bother giving the matter of witness protection such personalized attention. Surely, the man had better things to do.

Wasn't like he was in any condition to pull a stupid stunt like try to slip out from under Hardcase's judicial stay. Wasn't like he'd be dumb enough to try that, even if he could take a hike, which he couldn't. Hell, he doubted he could even manage to sit up on his own, let alone stand or make a run for it. It was all he could do to breathe without coughing his lungs out.

Irritably, as silent minutes stretched into what felt like hours, trying not to flinch when Hardcastle touched him while adjusting his blanket, Mark wondered again and again why the _hell _the old donkey was hanging around; why didn't he just go home?

And why, oh why, did he care so much? Why did it hurt so damned much, to know Hardcase only valued him as a protected witness, huh? Mark knew damned well he didn't deserve anything more. Oh, sure, he'd apparently done his best to cover Hardcastle's escape from that gang, but that was what he was there for, right? Besides, what other choice had there been? The Judge didn't owe him anything for that, except, maybe, a little respect for the fact that he wasn't an abject coward who only cared about his own worthless hide.

Lying there, feeling bereft, missing something he'd never had – the Judge's honest concern about him as a … what? Acquaintance? Surely not friend. Employee, maybe? Whatever. Mark felt like a fool for having even briefly and only fleetingly hoped, or wished, that Hardcastle had maybe cared about him, really cared about _him_, and not just about a witness, or Tonto, or whatever he was in the Judge's life. Huh, imagine that, wanting the guy who'd sent him to prison for stealing his own car to care about him. Like that was ever going to happen. Like he should even care what the Judge thought about him.

Distantly, almost grudgingly, Mark supposed he should be grateful. Back when death had been such a temptation, it had mattered to think – to _believe_ – that someone cared enough about him to hold onto him, to not let him slip away, and he'd fought hard to keep living. So, yeah, he should be grateful that Hardcase had hung around so much. At least … at least he was still alive, still had a chance to maybe make something of his life, someday.

But, wearily, unable to fully relax with the Judge sitting there, no longer finding any comfort in his presence, Mark really, really wished the man would go away.

Hardcastle could tell that McCormick wasn't sleeping. The deeply etched lines of strain on his face and the slight flinch when Milt pulled up his blanket to keep him warm were dead giveaways that he was faking it, but the Judge wrote it off to the kid being too exhausted to do more than lie there. Still, he wished McCormick _would_ sleep because that would be the best thing for him, and he worried that maybe the pain was still so bad Mark just couldn't let go enough to rest. When the kid had been unconscious, Milt had talked about this and that, mostly with the hope that Mark might hear him and that the sound of his voice might help somehow. Now, sitting in silence, the time weighed heavy, but he didn't want to disturb what little rest McCormick was trying to get.

Still, the silence, when he knew damned well the kid was awake, was unnatural. McCormick just wasn't this quiet. It was even kinda eerie. At first, Milt was content to let him rest, sure that the kid would soon start whining, or at least ask how long he'd been out of it. But, when the silence stretched, he started making bets with himself about how long Mark could go without talking. After nearly an hour of losing his bets, he was growing uncomfortable. Why the hell was the kid being so stubborn? Was he hurting that bad? McCormick didn't strike him as the type to suffer in silence for the hell of it. Or … Milt frowned, thinking about how he'd bellowed at the man when he'd been fighting to breathe, and he wondered if Mark had misunderstood, was maybe resenting being ordered like a child to be still. Who knew what went through that guy's head?

Willing himself to patience, he leafed through some magazines he'd brought for Mark, back when the kid had been feeling better, before the infection had damned near done him in. But, try as he might, he just couldn't get interested in the world of car racing. It just seemed so self-indulgent to him, a bunch of grown-up hot-rodders tearing around a track as fast as they could go, risking life and limb – for what? Glory? What kind of glory was that? What did it matter? Sighing, he told himself that it mattered as much as any other sport in terms of skill, discipline, training and, well, guts. Looking at McCormick, he had no doubt that the man had the guts; whether he'd ever been any good at the sport in terms of skill, discipline and training, Hardcastle didn't know. Frowning, he thought that was something he might be best to avoid as a conversational gambit. Racing was just one more thing the kid had lost when he'd pulled that stupid stunt to dodge high insurance payments and ended up paying a whole lot more than a few lousy bucks. His gaze dropping to the floor, he sighed heavily.

"Go home," Mark rasped.

"Huh? What?" he asked, straightening, irritated with himself for being so lost in thought he hadn't heard what Mark had said. "You want something? Need anything?"

"Go home, Judge," Mark repeated, his voice weak and drawn with effort, and sounding breathless. "You're tired. An' I don't need a baby-sitter."

"Ah, I'm okay," Milt protested. "You sure you don't need anything. You look like you're in pain."

Mark grimaced and, when he opened his eyes, Milt could see the shadows of exhaustion and … and something else, but he wasn't sure what. He had the distinct feeling McCormick was stonewalling him, hiding something from him. There was no sparkle in those eyes, no vestige of humor or warmth, just dull endurance.

"Look, McCormick, earlier, you know? When I shouted at you? I didn't mean nothin' by it. I, uh, I just wanted to get your attention, so you'd let them help you. Not that they seemed to be helpin' much at the time. You had every right to be fighting them. You needed that tube outta your throat and they weren't taking it out."

Mark just stared at him for a second or two, and then looked away. His breathing was still labored and congested, and he seemed to be concentrating on taking very shallow breaths. That wasn't good. They'd put him on the respirator in the first place to fill his lungs fully. Milt didn't pretend to understand it but, apparently, the shallow breathing was part of what had caused the pneumonia in the first place.

"You're gonna hafta breathe deeper, ya know," he ventured. "Or the infection'll just get worse again."

Mark's gaze wandered around the room before coming back to him. The dullness had hardened into resentment that Hardcastle didn't understand, except to assume that the kid didn't need someone raggin' on him when he already felt like hell. Before he could say anything more, Mark whispered bitterly, "Don't worry. I won't croak on you and wreck the case."

"What the … that's not what I meant!" Milt exclaimed hotly, stung by the antipathy he didn't understand, especially when he'd been doing all in his power to lend support. "I just meant –"

"I know, I know," Mark cut in, again closing his eyes, the effort to engage obviously taxing his energy to the limit. "I'm too tired to talk. Please, go home, Judge. Just go home."

Hardcastle scowled in confusion, certain that he was missing something – something crucial – but had no clue as to what it was. He didn't want to leave, not when the kid was still so fragile, so damned sick. But he could also see his presence wasn't doing any good; was, apparently, only causing distress. He rubbed his mouth as he struggled to figure out what was going on but, with a sigh, he had to accept that he was missing too many pieces of this particular puzzle. And, hell, maybe McCormick just needed some space to rest without feeling like he was being stared at or some damned thing. Nodding to himself, he figured that made some sense.

Standing, he awkwardly patted Mark's shoulder and tried not to take it personally when McCormick flinched at his touch. "Okay," he rumbled, "okay, I'll leave you be for a while. Let you rest. An' I'll see if they can give ya somethin' for the pain, to make it easier for you to breathe. But I'll be back later, to see how you're doin'. I'm not gonna just abandon ya here, kiddo. You're not alone. Ya hear? You're not alone."

Mark's mouth tightened and he swallowed convulsively. Other than that, only a tight, sharp nod indicated that he'd heard and understood.

Feeling a helpless ache inside that he didn't fully understand, Milt patted him once more before trudging out of the room.

Behind him, Mark opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling and, cursing the weakness that left his emotional control in tatters, swiped impatiently at the stinging tears before they could slide down his face.

Mark had thought he'd feel better when Hardcase left, more able to relax and rest … only to become irritated with himself when, instead, he felt abandoned and bereft. And scared.

He told himself he was being ridiculous, that it was just the drugs, and being so sick and weak, that left him feeling more vulnerable and alone than he'd been since prison. He was used to fending for himself. Hell, it had been a way of life since ….

His mind shied away, his emotions not in any shape to think about how alone he'd been since he'd been orphaned. He kept thinking he should be used to being alone and should stop feeling so damned lonely, but the hollow, cold feeling hadn't diminished or gotten any better over the years, just more familiar. He was a man, dammit, not a lost little kid; he should be able to handle it better. Being alone shouldn't matter so damned much any more.

Telling himself to suck it up, he closed his eyes and tried to relax. But he felt broken. His chest was on fire and his throat was raw. His head throbbed and so did his leg. He felt trapped in a miasma of pain, with nowhere to go and no way to escape it. His fists bunched in the sheets as he fought off the urge to moan. God, could he be any more pathetic?

A nurse came in and he stiffened at the intrusion. She was young, and pretty, but he couldn't find enough enthusiasm or strength to even try to smile, and how pitiful was that?

"Mr. Hardcastle said you needed something for the pain," she explained, as she swabbed his upper arm and then jabbed him with a needle. He felt a burning sting and winced. She fussed with his sheets and pillow, offered him a sip of water. "You'll feel better soon," she assured him on her way out.

_Better? What was better?_ he wondered. The pain gradually distanced and he wilted against the support of the bed. _Okay, yeah, this was 'better'_, he supposed. No less lost or afraid, but … better.

Mark had just begun to relax and doze a little when another white-garbed woman came in. Frowning, feeling bleary, he watched her approach and wondered what she wanted. She wasn't a nurse – wasn't wearing a cap – and she wasn't carrying a tray of stoppered glass tubes and needles like the lab techs did.

"I'm Mrs. Rankin, your respiratory technologist," she told him. "We need to get you breathing more deeply, and coughing up the gunk in your lungs, or you won't get better."

"Cough?" he echoed, appalled, knowing how much that was going to hurt.

With a hearty cheerfulness that he found incredibly annoying, she smiled and nodded, and proceeded to roll him onto his side. The next thing he knew, she was beating on his back, her cupped hands making a drumming sound that thrummed through his body. "Breathe," she encouraged with robust vigor. "Deep. In through the nose, out through the mouth."

Was she kidding? When she repeated the instructions, he grimaced with resigned trepidation but did as he was bid – and erupted into a frenzy of deep, hacking coughs that felt as though his lungs were exploding. She braced his body, murmuring encouragement, reminding him to breathe. Gasping in agony, choking, he wondered if he was trapped in a nightmare that was never going to end. Finally, finally, she stopped tormenting him and he lay exhausted, panting shallowly, the room spinning around him and darkness edging close.

"We'll need to get you deep breathing every two hours," she advised him matter-of-factly. "I know it's hard, but if you can't sustain deeper breathing on your own and clear out those lungs, we'll have to put you back on the machine."

Mark gazed at her bleakly and gave a slight, weak nod of understanding. "I'll breathe," he whispered, his voice rough and raw. As bad as he felt, it was better than having that damned tube down his throat, choking him like it had that morning. When he was again alone, weak as a day-old kitten, limp as a rag doll, he rolled his eyes and thought how much easier it would have been to be dead.

Time blurred, broken only by the regular percussion and deep breathing exercises that left him panting through the pain. Regular doses of medication left him floating, hazy, the pain more distant, less strident, but still there. Hours passed, becoming days and nights of misery, debilitating, discouraging, drifting anguish, and dull acceptance. Sometimes, maybe even often – Mark was no longer sure – Hardcase was there, looking and sounding concerned and irritable in equal measure. In his turn, Mark managed little more than sullen indifference when he was capable of feeling anything at all. But, lacking the energy to pretend to be sociable when Teddy came to visit, Mark felt like a heel when he closed his eyes and feigned sleep. Nurses bathed him, turned him, changed the sheets and intravenous bottles, plumped the pillows, and urged him to drink tepid water and juices that held no appeal. Charlie Friedman appeared from time to time, to press the cold stethoscope to his chest and listen, nodding soberly and then patting his arm gently, murmuring he was getting better, telling him to keep up the good work.

Getting better? Good work? So far as he could tell, Mark was enduring, and that was all. He felt utterly wasted and seriously wondered if he'd ever be any better, ever be able to breathe again without wrenching, shattering pain. Ever feel strong again. Hell, ever be more than a lump of miserable flesh too weak to sit on his own, let alone walk even the short distance to the bathroom. He came to loathe everything about what was happening to him – his weakness and lack of dignity, his engrossing self-pity, the pain – but he couldn't seem to get past it. He didn't have the energy; was just too damned tired. Breathing, simple breathing, something he'd always taken so much for granted, took everything he had.


End file.
